


Numbered Days, Infinite Hope

by CapGirlCanuck



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hugs, I wrote this with Eleven in mind, I'm still new to this universe, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Taking a trip with the Doctor, The Doctor is Wonderful, serious conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: You never meant to call him.That was an accident. A completeac-ci-dent.You just wanted to call somebody. Anybody.But the Doctor picked up.
Relationships: The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Numbered Days, Infinite Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in quarantine for almost five weeks now, while covid made its way through my family. And I have put all this time off to very good use, watching just over three seasons of Doctor Who around the writing and doing other stuff with my sibs. I did not plan on falling in love with Matt Smith's Doctor and everyone else, or deciding to spend my winter working through as much of the show as my library can supply. I certainly didn't plan to write any fanfics for it. And _definitely_ not something as self-indulgent as a reader's story. But it seems I needed to. I did my best to make it possible for anyone to read this and enjoy it.  
> This is in honour of the restless, lonely, dreamy little girl I used to be, who would have gone nuts over the idea of a Doctor with a blue box that could go anywhere anywhen, and have all kinds of adventures. I am blessed that I found a Friend when I needed Him most, but I still wish I could give that awkward kid of a teenager I used to be a hug. This is hugs to all awkward, lonely, restless, dreaming readers. Don't stop dreaming or living.
> 
> A few times while working on this, I put on Kodaline's album _One Day at a Time_ , and it fit the mood really well.

You never meant to call him.

That was an accident. A complete _ac-ci-dent._

You just wanted to call somebody. Anybody.

School was hell, work was exhausting, projects were late and unfinished, and your brain had shorted out for the nth time in the last three hours. It had gotten dark outside, which you only noticed when you sat back from your laptop.

With a groan, you shut the laptop, too far gone to care about saving the nothing you’d written.

You sat in the dark, laid your arms across the desk, and dropped your head on them. You sat for what seemed like a long time, in silence.

The house felt empty. Your room felt empty, even though you were in it.

You closed your eyes and listened to your breathing. _In, out, in, out, in, out, in, out…_

The darkness felt heavy on your shoulders, but you were too alone to really care. Sometimes, you feel alone, even though you have family, even though you have friends, even though you might know that there are people who love you and care about you, you don’t feel it. It was that again.

A lonely night. When you want to sit and not move forever and ever, or when you want to curl up in bed and play all your sad music, or sometimes you call someone and talk until you realize you’re not lonely anymore.

That night you finally lifted your head, reached for your phone. The screen was bright in the darkness and made you squint for a moment.

You flipped to your contacts. Scrolled down the list. Slowly.

Nope.

Nope.

No way.

Nope.

Nada.

Nah.

Nopity-nope.

No.

No. No…

You reached the end of the list, and stared at the screen till it blurred and you had to blink, look away, rub your eyes.

You realized those were actual tears prickling there, and you swallowed the sudden lump. _Oh, God,_ you thought, and you wondered if that had been more than swearing, if you had actually called out to Someone. You shook your head angrily at yourself, and looked back at your phone.

Yes, you wanted to talk to someone. But not any of them. You wished you could talk to someone who didn’t know you already. Someone who would ask questions about you, and maybe, actually, be interested in the answers.

If only you could chat with a person in one of your favourite stories, you thought. You would know about them already, they would feel like a friend, you would be able to trust them, but they wouldn’t know you. You would be new to them.

 _Self-centred git,_ you think, and you can’t remember whether you grew up with that insult, or you got it from _Harry Potter._

But all the insults you heaped upon yourself, couldn’t fill the gnawing ache for someone, _anyone,_ to care. Because that would make it so much easier to care back.

So you took your phone in both hands, opened the key pad and dialled. Totally random. No planning, or intent. Other than to talk to another human being.

It didn’t even look like a phone number, and you dimly wondered if there would be some exorbitant long-distance charges. But nuts. That could matter later.

So, you hit the call button.

For some reason you didn’t put it on speaker, you held it to your ear, slouched back in your chair. It took several long seconds to connect, which it finally did with an odd _shoowoop_ noise. Then the dial tone.

You counted, there in the dark, staring at nothing, the invisible wall, the invisible bed.

_One. Two. Three. Four._

The screen went dark next to your face.

 _Five. Six. Seven. Eight._ _Nine._

_Does this person not have voicemail? Or an answering machine? Do they even exist?_

_Ten. Elev–_

A click, and the, _“Hallo,”_ came before you were ready for it.

You sat bolt upright, suddenly oddly breathless. “Lo. Hi. Um, yes, hello.”

_“Is there a problem?”_

Clearly an English accent, man. Okay. You were okay with that…

“Um, well, not really. I just–” Your chest felt tight, and your face was hot, and you suddenly felt like the stupidest _stupid stupid stupid…_

 _“Who’s stupid?”_ asked the voice, and you wanted to die when you realized you’d said that out loud.

“Me. I’m sorry. So sorry. I just wanted to, wanted to talk to someone, and I dialed this random number, and I’m so sorry I bothered you.”

You can’t remember now if you said more, but when you ran down, there was a quiet laugh on the other end. _“I’m sorry, but there’s no such thing as accidental calls on this line.”_

It was an odd enough statement, that it calmed you. Or at least made you curious. “Who is this?” you asked.

_“The Doctor, of course. And if there’s anything I can help you with, I’ll be right there.”_

You couldn’t help the little snort you gave then.

_“Come on then, what is it? A supernova? A missing planet? Fish with legs? Your dog talking to you in another language?”_

You were actually laughing, because who wouldn’t? It _was_ funny, a great joke that someone, in some country, somewhere, was nailing. And you had to congratulate them on that.

“No, none of those,” you said, sitting back again. “Though, thanks for making me laugh. Haven’t done that in awhile.”

This time the silence deepened between you, until he spoke quietly. _“Is there a crack in your wall? Is your world ending? Is someone dying?”_

And you felt suddenly ashamed, because the real Doctor was an important person, always saving the world, or worlds, and calling him for something silly was like holding up an emergency response line.

“No,” you muttered, and you felt very small and insignificant, because even if this wasn’t actually the Doctor, this sounded like how a conversation with him would go. “No. Nothing’s _really_ wrong, I guess. I’m just… tired. And well, lonely.”

And you hated the way your voice cracked so stupidly on that.

“So I just decided to call a random number, and talk to someone.” You rubbed a knuckle in your eye. “The Doctor is one of my fave characters by the way, you sound amazing. Amazingly like him, I mean. What’s your real name? And where are you from?”

There was a brief silence, deeper this time, but you almost thought you could _feel_ a confused frown through the phone.

_“I told you, I’m the Doctor, and I’m a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous.”_

It was delivered with such ease and conviction, that you had to smile. “Yeah, I know that’s where the Doctor’s from, but… you’re not really him.”

 _“What do you mean I’m not really him?”_ There was definite indignation in that tone. _“Of course, I’m the Doctor.”_

A beat of silence, because this joke was starting to fade. “But you know the Doctor’s not real. The TARDIS, and the time travel, and Daleks. Rose and River and the rest. I love them all, but it’s just a story, just a sh–”

_“What?”_

There was something so raw and sharp and horrified and indignant all together in that single word, that you sat silent. Shaken.

You thought you could hear him breathing, or maybe that was yourself.

“I’m… sorry,” you finally whispered into the void. This has all gone horribly wrong, not at all what you intended, talking to some madman with a phone.

You heard him take a slow breath, and when he spoke his voice was even. _“What do you mean I’m not real. Of course, I’m real. I am very very real.”_

You found yourself picturing him saying those very words, the affronted face, and the eyes with the possibility of anger and the possibility, or maybe hope, of amusement. It certainly sounded like him.

“Well,” you started softly, “ _you_ must be real, of course. You’re talking to me.”

_“Look here, what’s your name?”_

You hesitated, unsure about telling some stranger, who was turning out very strange indeed, and he huffed.

_“Never mind, you can give it to me when I get there. I’ve got the TARDIS locked onto your signal. See you in a minute.”_

For a moment you sat there, until the noise in your ear indicated he had hung up. Seriously?

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or roll your eyes or fall out of your chair, as you lowered your phone to the desk.

And then wind whipped around you.

You heard it first, that noise you’d heard from your television or computer hundreds of times, but so much louder. Then there was the glow, and the wind still whirling around you, and your sheets were flapping on the bed, and some papers swirled off your desk, and you found yourself scrambling out of your chair and taking several steps back into the corner.

“One minute exactly,” said the voice.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even blink.

In front of your bedroom door, was a large blue box, with POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX on the roof and a light on top. And a man standing silhouetted in the open doorway.

The light spilled over you, and you finally turned your head away, closed your eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and pinched your arm. As hard as possible.

“Ouch!” You shuddered as you snapped open your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” said that voice, and you shook your head, again, feeling a little bit of panic start to rise inside.

“No. No. I’m. You.” You took a deep breath, trying to be brave. “You’re not real. You can’t be. I must be dreaming”

He stepped into your room, pulled out the screwdriver, and the green light scanning around your room, made you laugh, high and a little hysterical.

“Why have you got the lights off?” They flicked on. “There, that’s better.”

He looked at you, and you blinked back, and you felt the emotions growing inside you, swirling together, fear and awe and shock and disbelief and hope and denial and wonder and… maybe joy. He stood in your room, maybe four feet away, and looked at you.

Everything was right, the shoes, the pants, the jacket, the tie, the hair, the eyes. Oh, the eyes.

“Not real, am I?”

The wonder, the hope, the curious amazement was winning out, and you felt yourself thawing, cautiously letting your stance open.

“I… I don’t know.”

He waited a beat, still watching you, and then he smiled slowly, relaxed himself. “Well, you’re real enough. And so is this room. Not a bad colour for the walls. Nice bed.” He jumped on it once or twice, experimentally, and you couldn’t help laughing, just once, a little breathless.

He really smiled then, and it was like a star being switched on. He thumped down and patted the mattress beside him. “Maybe you should sit down, this all seems to be a bit much for you.”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you said, but you were on the edge of smiling as you crossed your room to sit on your bed beside the Doctor.

As if he was your friend who had just stopped in for a little chat.

You tried not to stare, but you couldn’t help it, and then you hesitantly, cautiously, put out a hand. His hand met yours, palm to palm, and you gripped it tightly, and a little awkwardly, a sort of handshake, that didn’t really involve shaking. Though you might have been trembling.

You hung on for just a few seconds too long, because you had to. Had to feel the bones and skin and warm beating pulse in that hand. Had to, to know it was real.

“Okay,” you nodded. Gave a laugh that was maybe shaky. “You’re real. You… are real.”

He grinned back. “Well, now that we’ve established that important fact, let’s talk about you.” He sat forward, leaned his elbows on his knees, turned his head to regard you with those intense, half-merry half-sober eyes.

“What’s your name? And where are you from?”

So you told him. You told him your story.

You talked all about your family and your friends and the books you love, like you hadn’t talked to anyone in ages. He laughed in all the right places, and some of the wrong ones, and looked serious when ever you really needed him to, and at some point you came to with a start. Realized you had been sitting there, staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

You couldn’t remember what you had been saying, and you smiled without meaning to. “You really are like Gandalf.”

“What?” he said again, but amused.

“Oh, you know. Old and wise and full of all this knowledge and power no one else could begin to grasp, but you like fireworks and good food and being with people and a good joke and you know that things are beautiful.”

His smile was young and his eyes were old when he answered.

“You said you were… lonely.”

You looked away, shrugged, face going hot. And then you said something you did _not_ plan on.

“I wish I could die.”

It sounded horrible in the silence, and you moved your mouth faster. “I mean, I just wish I could… stop being here? It-It’s hard, and life… kinda really sucks right now, there’s just so many bad things happening in the world, and no one understands how I feel, and my life is so… blah and pointless, I keep messing things up, and if I could just… go away for awhile, and come back when things are better, like sleep. Like Rip Van-what’s-it. So maybe, I don’t want to die? I just… don’t want to… _be_ right now.”

In the deafening silence you sat on your bed, hunched over, wishing you could drop through the floor right then. The Doctor wasn’t saying anything, and you couldn’t bear to look at him.

When he jumped up, it startled you. “Right. Well then,” said he. “Where would you like to go?”

You jerked your head up to stare at him, you couldn’t help it. The door of the TARDIS was still open, and he was standing in the glow of it, much warmer and enticing than the light of your bedroom. He smiled.

“All of time and space within our reach. Come on. You choose.” He held out his hand.

You were staring at him, with your mouth slightly open (you were aware of that). “But–” you faltered. But you looked into his face, and you reached out, and you took his hand. You were smiling as he pulled you to your feet.

“You’re gonna love this,” he grinned over his shoulder, as he stepped through the door.

You had to stop, hands on the doorframe, had to stare at the sign on the door and trace the letters with your fingers, had to stroke your hands over the blue painted wood. It was solid, and you smacked your palm lightly against one corner, just to be sure.

“Hello, old girl,” you whispered, completely without planning to, and you will never confirm or deny that there were tears in your eyes, when you looked down at your feet, and stepped off your bedroom floor, and into the TARDIS.

Oh, you’d seen it a hundred times, you’d imagined it, dreamed about it. You knew full well: ‘It’s bigger on the inside.’ But you still had to stop and stand, hearing the door click shut behind you, and stare. Because it was even bigger on the inside that you had actually figured.

It was an entirely different thing _being_ here, _in_ the TARDIS. The TARDIS. _THE TARDIS!_ You were in the TARDIS.

“It’s real,” you whispered, and you had to reach out for the walls, run your hand along the railings, and take deep breaths as if the air was supposed to be different or special inside here. You followed him up onto the control platform, still gaping around you, and you were smiling, smiling, smiling so big it hurt. You _might_ have even squealed, or done a little dance. It’s hard to remember.

“I’m in the TARDIS,” you said out loud. “I’m in the TARDIS, with the Doctor.”

You looked over at him, leaning casually against the control panel, though he was fiddling with something with one hand. He was grinning at you.

“What do you think?”

And you said it. “It’s… It’s _so much_ bigger on the inside. I didn’t realize _how_ big.” Oh, he looked so happy when you said that.

“Right. Now, where to?” He was moving then, tapping this, pulling that, pushing another lever.

“I’m… I’m not… sure.” You stood, staring at the array of gidgets and gadgets that all had some important function, and all looked like they’d been assembled from a junk room in someone’s basement. You started to follow him around the console. “I’ve never just been able to go _anywhere._ It’s hard to decide.”

The Doctor laughed. “You can go a hundred places in one night with this girl. Actually, a lot more—you _could_ go everywhere in the universe, and still make it back to the moment you left. But we have to start somewhere. Name one place you’ve always wanted to go.”

You threw up your hands. “I don’t know! I mean, I’ve always wanted to _go_ places. See the world. But then sometimes reading stories and watching other people go to those places was enough.”

“Well, let’s keep it simple, and start on Earth then. How about Ancient Egypt? Travels with David Livingstone? Meet Tolkien? Cortez? How about the caves of Hang Son Doong?”

You stood there, laughing at him, and finally said, “Okay, okay. Yes, somewhere on Earth. But why don’t you pick? Since you’re the expert.”

“Views or adventure?” he asked, bouncing around like a six-year-old invited out for ice cream, flicking switches, typing something, checking his scanner.

“Both,” you said.

“Then hold on tight!”

He threw a lever, and the floor jerked under your feet, forcing you to grab the edge of the dashboard. You were flying, you _were really truly flying in the TARDIS_ , and you laughed in a wordless shout, the Doctor whooping beside you.

It was like exploding out of a cell or an egg, bursting out of some place small and dark and cramped into a new world, a new place, bigger and brighter and _totally cooler_ than you dreamed possible.

That ride left you breathless, and when the TARDIS finally stilled, and went quiet, settling in to her destination, it took you a moment to let go. When you did you almost fell over, and the Doctor caught you with a hand under your arm.

“You okay there?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You nodded a few times more than necessary. “Where- where are we? _When_ are we?”

“Let’s take a look, shall we?”

He was standing at the doors then, grinning in invitation.

You hurried to join him, but before he could pull open the door, you threw your arms around him, hugged him hard. You pressed your face into his jacket, and you might have been laughing, or maybe you were crying.

He was solid and real and warm, so definitely real.

He seemed startled at first, but then he hugged you back, and you thought you heard him mutter, “You’ve waited long enough, I guess.”

When you had finally caught your breath, you stepped back, rubbed a hand over your face.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “I just–” You looked at him. “I’m just so happy it’s real. That you’re real. Because that means it’s all real. Gallifrey, and the Rift, and the banana.” You laughed. “And Rose, and River, and Jack, and the Ponds, and the rest.”

He stiffened, frowned at you, but more puzzled than angry. “What do you mean? How do you know about all those things? I’ve never met you before, and you seem to know as much about my life as my best friends. And why would you think we’re not real?”

“Well…” You had no idea where to start answering that. What could you say? Hadn’t you mentioned how Doctor Who was favourite television show when you were talking back in your bedroom? “You- you’re a TV show. A story. That’s what I always thought. With actors who play, well, you. And everyone, and it’s your story, all of it on screen. All the battles you’ve fought, and all the people you’ve run off to the moon with, and all the times you’ve cared until it broke both your hearts. Like River’s diary, I guess, except it’s all from your POV, so it starts with you and the TARDIS at the beginning.”

You had to stop and think for a moment. “But if you’re real– What does that mean? Is the show real? Or is it a show that just looks exactly like you, and this place, and everything?”

You looked at him, expecting some sort of timey-wimey answer, probably something about parallel universes and interdimensional planes. But no, he was smiling again, relaxed.

“Aha,” he said. “Right. Riiiight! That’s why you’re here!” And he winked at you.

“Now then, let’s go! And by the way,” he added, hand on the door knob. “Don’t tell me anything I don’t know already.”

“But how do I know-?” you started, but the door was open, and light was spilling in, and the Doctor was _Oohin_ g and _Ahh_ ing, and you had to run after him.

It might have been then, or maybe it was later, but you did realize that it wasn’t that hard to figure out _when_ the Doctor was, from the way he was dressed, and the state of the TARDIS, and his attitude, and his reactions to things you had already said. So you ended up being safe there.

Besides you were having too much fun to think about accidental spoilers.

With the Doctor you swam a river, and visited an ancient city that took your breath away, and chased some animals through a field, and climbed a mountain. You laughed, and ran, and you caught yourself _running with the Doctor_ which was supposed to be impossible. “Just highly unlikely!” you yelled, and the wind carried off your words.

That would have been enough, honestly, a day—or was it a night? —with the Doctor, finished off with a picnic on a mountainside and a glorious sunrise.

But you were with the Doctor after all. Trouble always finds the Doctor. Or is it the other way round?

Anyway, trouble came that day.

You were afraid, more afraid than you’d ever been in your life. There were people in danger, children about to die, and the ground seemed to be cracking under your feet. That day you faced one of the most terrible things you’ve ever feared, and you (probably, most likely) almost got killed.

You did something stupid, and the Doctor had to rescue you.

But then you did something brave, and you saved someone else’s life.

Your head was spinning, and you were trying to breathe properly, and stay focussed on what needed to be done to rescue the children. You heard the Doctor scream your name several times. The Doctor might have gotten hurt at one point; some of it’s a bit blurred.

And just at the end, when hope seemed lost, you and the Doctor did it. Whether it was your idea or his you don’t remember, but it was enough, just enough to set everyone free, and to have one glorious day, where everybody lived.

You were dirty and tired (and sweaty and smelly, but he didn’t seem to care), but exhilarated at the same time, when you said those words.

“Everybody lived.”

The Doctor looked at you and smiled, and gave you a side hug. “They did. They really did.”

You both sat in the door of the TARDIS, dangling your legs, and munching Jammie Dodgers, and staring out at the stars, and the space, and the marvelous, beautiful ball of swirling white and blue and grey and green below.

“So, you actually get tired of seeing this?”

He shrugged. “Not if I’m with beautiful people like you.”

“Do you even know how many times you’ve been to Earth?”

He scrunched up his face, and you laughed.

“Do you ever do this with your own planet? Gallifrey? Sit above it and watch it? Or maybe I mean, _would_ you? If you could?”

A series of emotions crossed his face as you said all that, and you both looked away, stared down at the Rocky Mountains. You thought it was the Rockies anyway.

“Yes.”

It was said in such a low tone, you didn’t dare look at him. And you didn’t ask him which question he was answering.

There was a long pause.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the door frame on his side, “we always find what we’re looking for. In the end. We don’t always realize, because we don’t usually know what _it_ actually is. The thing that we’re searching for. But we find it. We’re all looking for something, and good or bad, we all find it at some point. Before it’s over.”

“What are you searching for?” you asked.

He stared back. “What are _you_ looking for?”

You both sat there for a long time, saying nothing.

You don’t know why you said it. “Do you ever wish you’d never been born?”

He lifted his eyebrows at you. “Well, clearly you do.”

You shrugged. “Do you ever wish you couldn’t die?”

At that he turned away. You watched his profile, the way he stared at the Jammy Dodger he had just pulled out of the bag. 

“You are going to die. Someday. Right? You’re not actually immortal.”

“What, you don’t _know?”_ But there was enough affection in his voice that you weren’t hurt. “Of course, I’m going to die. Someday. So, will you. We all will. All our days our numbered. And that is probably a good thing.

“Who’d want to live forever, anyway? Unless everyone could. And they can’t, so that’s alright.” The Doctor waved a cookie under his nose, held it up and smiled at it. “It’s what we do within the numbered, that counts in the infinite.”

 _I’ll remember every word of this conversation for the rest of your life_ , you thought. There you were, sitting in space, dangling your legs, and snacking, in the middle of talking philosophy with the Doctor. Nobody could forget that.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“When you said that you’d never met anybody who wasn’t important. Did you mean that?”

If he didn’t know the quote, he didn’t let on. He just smiled. “Of course. Everyone, every single life everywhere, is a cog in this universe. Size doesn’t matter. What matters is: You’re there. Here. In it.”

More munching. More stars. You were over India now, you thought.

“What do you think River would say if she was here?”

He smiled, looked down, the face of a man in love. Then he looked over at you—grubby, messy, ordinary you.

“She’d say, ‘You have stars in your eyes, and earth in your hands. You were born for this.’”

You swallowed. Hard. “Born for what?”

“’For being you.’” Then he shrugged, smiled, threw the Jammy dodger in the air and caught it between his teeth. He had to speak around it. “And I have no idea what she would mean by that.”

But you did, you do. You hope you do.

So, you sat beside the Doctor, munched cookies (and drank something, was it milk? Space water?), and watched the stars above the spinning globe. You relived the adventure you just had down below, and asked for tales of his escapades. You laughed, and definitely cried. A little.

You had never been happier.

The phone broke up the party.

It startled you both, ringing shrilly on the console behind you. You sighed, and the Doctor scrambled up at once, taking the cookies with him. You were torn between the view, and the Doctor’s excited conversation, loathe to close the door, but wanting to know what was happening next.

He shouted your name, and you turned away, shutting the doors, and running to join him on the platform.

“What is it?” you asked.

“An escaped gronx on Hamaldistrem! Oh, this is good!” He was rubbing his hands, just like an excited kid, and you grinned.

“Alright, let’s get you home.”

He was throwing switches, pushing buttons, and it took a moment for you to realize what he said.

“But–”

You stared at him, and he seemed to notice. He stilled and looked up, frowning in a way that was sad and sorry and grateful and something you didn’t argue with.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

You might have argued, you might have sighed, you might have even cried. Or maybe you smiled, feeling all that sad and sorry and grateful in your own expression.

He put one hand on the dematerialization switch, and said your name, gentle. “Are you ready?” he asked.

You nodded. And you didn’t try to stop the tears from forming in your eyes.

You held on tight for that ride, spinning through the vortex, your heart and head exploding with the possibilities, the joy of adventure and discoveries, and the sorrow of endings and leavings.

You came home, back to your bedroom, exactly the same as you’d left it. You were the one who was different.

You hugged the Doctor goodbye, this wonderful, mad, funny, wise, caring, brave Time Lord from a distant planet, who thought bowties were cool. He hugged you in return and patted you on the back, patient.

You might have thanked him, and he probably thanked you, and you might have said you would always remember this and never forget. One thing you definitely asked him was, “Wait. What even is a _gronx?”_

He laughed, and said, “Oh, lots and lots of trouble. And ears! Lots of ears!”

And then wind filled the room, whipping around you, and there was a flash of bright light, and he was gone. The Doctor was gone.

“I’ll remember,” you whispered into the empty space he left.

You woke up the next morning, and you wondered if it had been a dream. You could find no real trace of the Doctor or his big blue box in your room, and you wanted to call yourself every name in the book for leaving your phone on the desk for the whole trip.

You sat back on the bed, sad, and discouraged, and beginning to doubt yourself. Had it all really happened?

And then you saw something odd. Maybe it was on the night table, or the desk, or maybe it looked like it had been shoved under the door. But it was most definitely real.

An envelope. With your name on the outside.

You still have it; in the place you keep all your most precious things. The handwriting wasn’t remarkable, and you’ve met people since whose letters are the same.

Your name. And inside: A drawing. Or maybe it’s a photograph; you’ve never been able to figure out.

The picture was of the stars; a constellation, a galaxy, a universe, all at once. It had colours you’ve never been able to name. And when you tilted it, just right, it wasn’t just stars, but the Earth. The beautiful ball hanging in space.

(You went around afterward, asking a few people what they thought of the picture, or if they knew where it came from. All of them thought it was ‘very cool’, ‘gorgeous’, or ‘amazing’. A few wanted to keep it or examine it more. So, you were sure the picture was real, but none of them knew.)

On the back was written one word in the same hand:

_HOME._

You pull it out whenever you need it, when things are hard, and you feel alone. Because that still happens a lot more than you’d like it to. Somehow it is always enough to take you back, to let you hear his voice again.

You haven’t seen him again, except on the screen. And you think maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. However it happened, whatever it meant, you will always be grateful.

You hope a little more, you smile a little more, you believe a little more, and you look up sometimes. And you don’t stop searching. Searching for what?

Oh, for love, for light, for goodness and truth.

But then you shrug at the question, because underneath, below all that, it’s like the Doctor said. Truthfully, you’re still not sure.

“We always find what we’re looking for. In the end,” he had said, and when you remember his eyes, you believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> So, did I do okay? Kudos and comments are wonderful, and I'd enjoy hearing what you thought.  
> Don't stop searching for the greater things. Love you, readers!


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